Liar
by arosynose
Summary: He clutches her hand so tightly, but makes sure not to break it. It's as fragile as porcelain, and worth a thousand chipped teacups. "You've only just come home."


When he finds her, when he pushes past the mayor and the orderly and the man with the mop, when he bends iron bars and tears through locks with all his otherworldly strength, she is sitting in the corner of her cell.

He is by her side in an instant, cane long forgotten. Both arms reach out to touch her, to know that this is not another dream, and she smiles at him.

"Hello, love," she says, and his hands tangle in her hair, pull her into him until there is no space left for guilt or regret. Their hearts beat in time, and he holds her.

.

.

She moves into his house, after the paperwork and discussions of pressing charges. She has no earthly possessions, so he buys them for her, and slowly little knick-knacks fill in empty corners and dusty gaps. Bright colors take root and spread through the old house like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Years locked away have made her cold and thin and pale, a sliver of what she was, but sunlight lends her face a happy glow, and flowing sundresses hide the places where her hipbones jar out and her ribcage protrudes. Her hair is cut shorter and brushed until it bounces in shiny curls the way it used to.

She accompanies him everywhere, only left behind when he goes to collect from his deals. They eat together, work together, and in the evenings they share a bed, both dressed in pajamas while their hands kiss across the pillows. He doesn't mind—couldn't possibly ask for more. And he is happy.

.

.

She is weak, at first, but it is to be expected after a lifetime away from open spaces and decent meals. He feeds her well, and makes sure she never misses a meal. Still, she picks at her food, and her appetite improves only slowly. She frowns at every sandwich she can't finish, at every bite of salad that remains in her bowl. He distracts her with flowers that she breathes in by the lungful, and the smile she gives him is worth all the gold in the world.

They live quietly for months, spending most of their time at the house or the backroom of his shop. They venture to the diner occasionally for lunch or dinner, not so much in an effort to avoid the odd stares they get, but more out of a desire to spend as much time as possible alone with each other, enjoying each other's company. She always seeks him out, whether it's when he leaves her to attend to a customer in his shop or when he's spent a moment longer than he said he would settling a deal. If he's away too long, he'll soon feel her arms winding around him from behind, pulling him to her and holding him there so she can feel him. Time spent alone in a cell has made her too wary of dreaming him up.

When she comes to him, he holds perfectly still in his grasp until her arms loosen, and then he turns and rests his hands on her head and back. Some dark and rainy days, she refuses to let go of his hand, and on the sunniest days she is much quicker to rush to his side.

"I need to make sure," is all she says, when he asks, and he knows exactly what she means.

.

.

It's months before they kiss, before their relationship goes beyond the physically platonic. She starts it, of course, all brave smiles and shining eyes under street lights. They kiss in the dark of the evening, and then walk home hand-in-hand. She kisses him again goodnight, and their hands twine, as always, in the space between them.

She does not get stronger as quickly as she'd like. One night, when she drops the spaghetti pot and nearly cries from frustration, he holds her shaking arms fast and kisses her senseless, until she can't remember why he began doing so in the first place. From then on, he does the heavy lifting, no matter how bitterly his knee complains. She looks grim when she realizes what he's doing—and it's soon, not long after he starts, because she may be weak now, but she's never been _stupid_—but she never stops him.

.

.

Her first annual checkup does not go as planned. She's been too weak for too long to be considered healthy, the doctor says, and his hand clenches on his cane hard enough to twist the metal.

"She's getting better," he bites out, fierce, but she sits on the examination table in too-familiar hospital gown, looking defeated.

They go back to the house afterwards, and curl up together on the loveseat in the living room.

"You're getting better," he whispers into her hair, and she smiles back at him, too pale in the fluorescent lighting.

.

.

He spends less time at the shop, after that. Attending to customers, and to the world in general, seems so much less important than spending time with her. They spend hours alone, just breathing the same air and making sure they aren't dreaming with light touches.

When they do go out in public, he glowers at everyone who glances at her with that worried expression, until no one dares meet their gaze.

"Mr. Gold," Emma says, when they bump into each other on the street. "…And Ms. French." His mouth thins at the use of her surname, but she runs her thumb over his knuckles, and he takes a deep breath.

"Yes, lovely to see you, dearie. Now, if you'll excuse us—"

"You don't look so good," the sheriff says, ignoring him. "Are you feeling okay?"

"She's _fine_," he snarls, and holds her close, keeping her anchored to him as they leave the worried sheriff behind.

.

.

Two months later, the doctor says they ought to start thinking about treatments.

"_For what_," he bites out.

The doctor gives her a worried look, and she stares at him with an expression that is so, so tired.

"You're fine," he whispers, but the words are sour on his tongue.

.

.

Her eating habits take a turn for the worse soon after. Sandwiches go nearly untouched, and sparse forkfuls of salad barely make it out of the bowl. She drinks water more than she eats, but her bladder needs constant emptying.

She comes out of the bathroom one morning and says there's blood where there shouldn't be.

They start treatment the next week, and as the first needle goes in and she quakes under his hands, he kisses her hair and whispers a promise.

.

.

She refuses to spend any more time than is absolutely necessary in the hospital, and he sees to it that it is rarely, if ever, necessary. It's the one spark in her that has never gone out, and even if that spark is borne out of fear, he would rather die than see it extinguished. So he holds her when she shakes and kisses her eyes when they're squeezed shut, and they never go near the building unless they absolutely have to.

They only leave the house on a regular basis to go to the library, where she checks out stacks of books to devour them whole. She is looking for an escape, and he knows his eyes are just another reminder of reality as of late.

He doesn't bother opening the shop. She can no longer make the trip without losing her breath.

.

.

He still whispers promises into her ears, but she no longer smiles in response. Her shoulders are in a permanent slump, and while he keeps his squared and strong, he feels the weight of her chains. Her illness hangs unspoken in the air, somewhere between his whispers and the scream building silently in her throat.

They rarely kiss, now, but one night when they go to bed, hands are no longer enough. They tangle in the sheets, skin to skin and mouth to mouth, until they're both flushed and breathless and sweating. She whispers to him, wishes and requests only he can grant, and he fulfills them all before the night is out. In the brief moments when her eyes are open, they are depthless and weary. He puts all of his strength into pleasing her, into getting back their shine.

The only sparkle they grant him that night are tears as the sun rises, and a look of hopelessness spreads across her face with the sunlight. Later, when they are dressed and her eyes are dry, they go to the hospital, and for the first time she requests to stay.

.

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He doesn't leave her side as they stick tubes into her arms, as they hook up a heart monitor and start the IV drip. He takes in her skin, stretched thin over bird bones, and wonders how it came to this.

He stays by her bedside all through the night, refusing to sleep even when she passes out from exhaustion. Instead, his eyes roam her face, the bags under her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks made harsher under the hospital lights.

Their hands are clasped all through the night, and he lets go only when his body's needs leave him no other choice. She's waiting for him when he gets back, but her eyes are no longer anxious as they used to be in his absence. Now she's waiting for more than just him.

.

.

Her father comes to see her, once. The man stands there, a clumsy sod who has no idea how to reconnect with a daughter sent to a lifetime behind bars.

Mr. French stays, fumbling, until being glared away. They don't see the man again.

"Good riddance," he mutters, and her face is sad but she doesn't disagree.

.

.

The doctor visits soon to tell them that she isn't responding to treatments. She accepts this finality with a nod, and half-lidded eyes. But he can't accept it, can't believe that his little bell could be dealt this fate.

"Don't worry, dearie," he murmurs, once they're alone. "You're going to be fine."

She smiles, this time, but it is neither an expression of happiness nor an agreement.

.

.

He stays with her, sleeping only when absolutely necessary. He can't miss a second of her, can't let a moment of their time together pass by. They spend her waking moments watching each other. She smiles often, but it does not reach her flat, gray eyes.

But one night, as he watches the flutter of her eyelids, her eyes open, and his breath is lost in the sky blue reflected there. She smiles, and it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

"Am I dreaming?" he whispers, and her sky eyes twinkle.

"I wish you were," she says, and when she breathes in it is low and rattles in her ribcage.

"I must be dreaming." Because she has never looked so radiant in waking, never shone so brightly but in his dreams—

"You're not," she says, and her voice is not a whisper but it is just as quiet and precious. "I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry you had to see me—" She pauses to take another breath, and it roars in her chest like a caged animal. "—like this."

"No, no." He kisses her bony knuckles, her taut palm. "No, don't be sorry. Please. You're going to get better. You look better already."

She shakes her head, still smiling. "I'm sorry for what's about to happen. I'm sorry for the way it's been. I'm sorry you've had to sit in that—" She laughs, but it's a sound like death, and his heart wrenches. "—ridiculous hospital chair!"

He shakes his head. "No, shush now. Go back to sleep—you're going to be _fine_."

"No, I'm not." Her gaze pierces through him, pins him down until he has no wear to run, no lies to hide behind. "I'm not. And we both know that."

"Please, don't," he whimpers, feeling himself fray and come apart at the seams. "Don't go, don't leave me here without you. I can't, not—not _again_." He clutches her hand so tightly, but makes sure not to break it. It's as fragile as porcelain, and worth a thousand chipped teacups. "You've only just come home."

"I know," she sighs. "And I'm sorry." She's crying again, eyes fixed on him. "I love you." It sounds like an ending, and he leans in to kiss her.

But this is no fairy tale, and when he opens his eyes she is silent and the heart monitor is blaring. The nurses rush in, and doctors with paddles follow. Through the chaos, he sits at her side completely still.

.

.

She is buried in the graveyard, the only testament to her being the headstone he has commissioned. And even that does not do her justice—"Beloved" is far too short to describe everything that she was, but it was all that mattered, in the end. She had been brave, and stubborn, and so full of hope and strength. But in the end, all she had was her love, and his.

He only has half of that now, and it's not nearly enough to get him to sleep at night, hand stretched across empty pillows. The coldness of the room, of the air where she should be, seeps into his bones, and he wonders with every weighted step if this is how she had felt.


End file.
